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Englishwomen who plunge into voluntary work with the same sure touch they apply to their jam-making. ‘They do look forward to seeing you, and most of them like a chat. Some poor ducks hardly ever see anyone else, so one does one’s best to jolly them up. The snag is that you have to ration your time, or the ones at the end of the round get cold lunches.’
    ‘I expect you can pop them in the oven if that happens. The meals, I mean.’
    ‘That’s the idea, and sometimes I’ ve done it, but old people are so forgetful. More than once I’ve opened the oven on Thursday and found Tuesday’s lunch still in there, untouched and dry as a biscuit.’ Her chesty laugh jogged the steering. She drove an Isuzu Trooper that suited her personality.
    Acton Turville alone would have been a simple task: meals on foot. The ‘and District’ was the part requiring transport. Many of the recipients lived in remote houses outside the village.
    ‘I always start at the farthest outpost,’ Mrs Dowsett explained as they cruised confidently along a minor road. ‘Old Mr Gladstone is our first call. He’s not the most pleasant to deal with and most of them leave him till last. Get the worst over first, I always say.’
    ‘What’s wrong with Mr Gladstone?’
    ‘Hygiene. The atmosphere, shall we say, is not exactly apple-blossom. He’s none too sociable, either. I’ve known him to be downright offensive about the meals. There’s no need for that. It’s plain food, but at least it’s warm.’
    ‘If he doesn’t want us …’
    ‘Social Services insist. He won’t cook for himself, apart from eggs from the few wretched hens he keeps in his yard. Used to be a farmer. Lived there all his life, as far as I can gather, but he doesn’t seem to have any friends. Sad, isn’t it?’
    ‘Perhaps he prefers a quiet life.’
    ‘Perhaps,’ said Mrs Dowsett, unconvinced.
    The ‘farthest outpost’ turned out to be only a mile from the village, just off the Tormarton Road, up a track that Joan Hanks privately vowed to take cautiously in her own little car for fear of ruining the suspension.
    ‘You’ll need tougher shoes than those when the weather gets worse,’ Mrs Dowsett advised when they were both standing in the yard. ‘Every time it rains, this is like a mud-hole after the elephants have been by. Good, you’ve brought the box. Always bring the box into the house. It keeps the food warm. Let’s see what reception we get today.’
    As they crossed the yard to the door of the stone cottage there was an extraordinary commotion from the henhouse at the side, hens crowding the wire fence.
    ‘Hungry, I expect,’ said Mrs Dowsett. ‘All they get is scraps, and not much of them.’
    ‘Poor things,’ said Joan.
    Mrs Dowsett tapped on the door and got no answer. ‘This is often the case,’ she explained. ‘They don’t hear you. As often as not, the door is open, so you just go in. Try it.’
    ‘He doesn’t know me.’
    ‘Don’t let that put you off. He treats us all like strangers. Is it open?’
    Joan knocked again, turned the handle and pushed. The door creaked and opened inwards just an inch or so. An overpowering stench reached her nostrils and she hesitated.
    ‘You see?’ said Mrs Dowsett. She called out in a hearty tone, ‘Meals on wheels, Mr Gladstone.’
    Joan held her breath and pushed at the door. The interior was shadowy and the full horror of the scene took several seconds to make out. Old Mr Gladstone was inside, slumped in a wooden armchair. The top of his head was blown away. A shotgun lay on the floor.
    ‘Are you all right, dear?’ said Mrs Dowsett, suddenly turned motherly.
    In this bizarre situation, Joan was uncertain whether the remark was addressed to the corpse, or herself. She gave a nod. She was reeling with the shock, and she needed fresh air if she was not to faint. She turned away.
    ‘I’d better get on the car-phone,’ said Mrs Dowsett, a model of composure. ‘Why don’t you feed that meal to